


Indelible Ink

by Tish



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Epistolary, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22601077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/pseuds/Tish
Summary: For Peglar and Bridgens, there were books and words, but more importantly, there was love.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Indelible Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CousinShelley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/gifts).



The ink flows like the sea crashing against the beach, driftwood and seaweed marking the line. Above and below, before and after.

The ink writes these words, draws the eye, the eye that reads these words. I close my eyes and see you, see you as you were, and how you will be. I'll look back to this time, before and after.

The ink will fade like your hair, but your heart won't diminish. I'll hold a shell to my ear and hear it.

The ink dries, like the pools of water will dry out in the heat. My skin will someday dry in the sun, but the same sun brightens your face. I see you from above, and you see me from below.

The sea takes me away, but will ever flow back to you. The night is painted black like ink, but the sun brightens the dawn, my ship silhouetted against the light so bright.

I might crash against the shore, but you will be there to save me. I devour every word you write, drink in the ink, bask in your eye.

You listen as I speak, read as I write, love as I love. The ink spills and tells a thousand stories, makes a thousand pictures, it could take a thousand and one nights to tell, but still the words would flow.

The ink marks a map for me to explore, an anchor to settle on my long journey, and eye to note the compass, a wheel to guide my way, or a heart to live by. 

You are my island. I can shelter under the grey strands, nestle against your branches, one hand upon your compass needle, ever pointing the way. I will find your treasure, buried and waiting for a bold explorer.

With the ink, I will write of your adventures, and of mine. You will read my words and laughing, snatch away my pen, dashing me upon your rocks.

~~~~~

Arriving at the dockside, Henry was delighted to be waylaid by Mr. Jopson to help haul the last boxes of books aboard Terror, each chest holding a promise of stories rich with life, of times long ago, of facts and fancy.

Henry's delight grew even more as Jopson paused as he led the way into the wardroom, a sly smile dancing upon his lips, before he disappeared inside. He followed, finding John very much settled at the table with a crate full of books.

“Good morning, Mr. Bridgens, it's been a while since we last met,” he said with a rather good impression of friendly innocence as he laid down his own chest.

John smiled and let out a small laugh. “An age and an eternity, Henry.”

A cup of tea was suddenly pressed into Henry's hands as Jopson passed by on his way out. “Who's this for, Thomas?” Henry asked, startled.

“You, unless you want to give it to the cat,” Jopson said as he lingered at the door. “If Lt. Irving comes along, just shove it in the cupboard. I'll just be sorting things in the great-cabin in the unlikely event you need me. Oh, I'm sure Mr. Bridgens would appreciate a hand to load the books for _Erebus_ , too.” With that, he left with a wink.

Henry turned to face John, contentedly sipping from his cup. “These are the officers' cups,” he whispered, half-scandalised.

“Well, there's no officers here,” John replied gently, a gleam in his eye as he lifted his cup to hide his smile. “Look inside that box behind you.”

Henry looked over to the box on the sideboard, finding it full of small journals. “Are these ones for us? I wonder how fast I could fill it?”

“Take one for posterity, another for us, Henry. Let the words flow as fast or slow as they need,” John replied. “Starting a book is like starting a voyage, sometimes getting waylaid along the way is half the fun.”

Henry sipped from the delicate china cup and contemplated the words and pictures to come. “It's even better to be waylaid with someone you love, John.”

~~~~~

The pages of the small book were blank, the off-white paper a little pockmarked and rough, but Henry cherished it. This journal was for nobody else but John and himself, the Admiralty would never reclaim this one to lie in a box somewhere, to fade away or gather dust.

~~~~~

Ink will flow against our bodies, a hidden message in white, not black. My shell will settle against the treasure chest and hear the pounding. The ink will dry and leave a taste of salt, a tide line. I will see you from below, and you will see me from above.

The water will be painted white like ice, but we will melt it and the ink will flow.

We will look back to this time, before and after, and the tide will settle and calm in our harbour.


End file.
